Come Down Sherlock
by Starlight05
Summary: A one-shot based on a prompt by Saxiphones bring out my eyes. Imagine if Sherlock and John never met, but Sherlock ends up on the roof of St. Bart's anyway... Will John, an unsuspecting passerby, accomplish the impossible and save this total stranger?


**This is my first story. So, hi there. I do hope this isn't bad.**

**Also, this was actually a prompt by Saxiphones bring out my eyes that said:**

**"AU where Mike Stamford never introduces our favorite army doctor and consulting detective. So, a year and a half later, when Sherlock stands on the roof of St. Barts, it's not because some deranged criminal put him there, he put himself there. Before he jumps, and before a crowd gathers, John Watson sees him from the street, calls the police, and runs up to the roof to talk the total stranger down."**

**You can find them on this site, should you desire to read their work!**

**Anyway, here goes nothing...**

Come Down, Sherlock

John yawned idly as he clocked out of his shift. It had been a night shift, and a right exhausting one, too. Two gunshot victims (of each other, of course), a case of pneumonia, and a broken finger had kept him much busier than he had expected to be, and he was glad to be finally going home. He adjusted his grip on his cane as he turned toward the elevator, nodding to the cheerful secretary behind the desk. The ache in his leg had bothered him more than usual last night, but he'd ignored it for the sake of the patients. Now, however, every step was wince-worthy. Ella, his therapist, still believed it was a psychosomatic wound that would fade once he got over his dark past. He disagreed. There was no way pain this fierce could be imagined; it was definitely real.

He rode the elevator down, only having it stop once at the canteen level to admit a mousy young woman clutching a cup of coffee. She stepped on and nodded nervously to him. He nodded back, thinking she looked vaguely familiar, like he had seen her at a staff party once. Then he recognized her as the shy girl who worked in the morgue. He didn't press her for awkward elevator conversation, only wanting to get home quietly. They both seemed relieved when the elevator opened to let him out.

He passed out of the hospital's doors and stepped onto the street, eyes scanning for a cab. Of course, there were none to be found. Sighing heavily, he limped across the pavement to the other side of the ambulance station, where more cabs usually idled.

A plane streaked across the sky noisily overhead, and John glanced up at the sound. That's when he saw it. A tall dark someone standing on the roof of St. Bart's.

John froze. He squinted up at the person. What would someone be doing up there? His mind immediately jumped to the worst conclusion.

No, wait John, you don't know that, he tried to tell himself. But watching how the person was pacing and looking agitated, he found he couldn't see any other explanation. He pulled out his mobile phone.

"Hi, yeah listen. I'm at St. Bart's and there's someone standing on the rooftop. I think they're going to jump... Well of course this isn't a joke, why would I joke about this? ... No, no one else seems to have seen ... Listen, stop ... Stop questioning me and just send someone, please!"

He hung up, annoyed with the woman on the other end, Sergeant something. How she had gotten to her rank with that attitude he wasn't sure, but he was getting worried about Scotland Yard's standards nowadays.

He looked up at the rooftop again, already striding across the street back toward Bart's. If he could reach the person, maybe he could buy the police time to get here. He had dealt with difficult decisions before; he could certainly deal with this!

One look at the elevator told him that getting to the top might be more of an issue that he'd thought. It was full of nearly a half dozen children and their very distressed-looking mother, all of whom were holding Get Well balloons and were chattering loudly amongst themselves.

John cursed slightly and turned toward the stairs. He dashed up them, worry for the person spurring him along. He didn't even notice the cane he still had, dangling unneeded in his hand.

He reached the roof level and cautiously opened the door, breathing hard. The man still stood on the ledge of the rooftop, looking down at the street below.

"What do you think you're doing?" John demanded, approaching slowly and non-threateningly, like one does a spooked animal in the woods.

The man turned his head at the sound, startled. His eyes were full of fear, surprise, pain, and loneliness for an instant, but when he registered John's presence, his face became a cold mask of indifference.

When John got close enough, the man looked at him sharply and said simply, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

It took a moment for the words to click in John's mind, and when they did, he didn't understand. "Sorry, what?" he stammered.

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan," John answered automatically. "But listen, what are you doing up here?"

The man turned back to look out across the city. "Thinking."

John blinked. "Thinking? You think this is a good place to think? Why not somewhere safer, like a cafe or a library?"

The man chuckled brokenly. "Because if I fall, if I jumped right now, who would miss me? No one! It wouldn't matter, not to the Yard, not to Mycroft, not to anyone! I have _no one!_"

"Now that can't be entirely true. You must have one friend, someone who cares about you," John reasoned, his worst fears about the man's state confirmed.

"No," the man whispered, resuming his frantic pacing along the edge. "I have no one. No one appreciates me, not even the clients I help. They're all so stupid! Can't even see brilliance when it's standing in front of them, saving their lives!"

"Alright, so you may be a bit under appreciated, but that doesn't justify this," John said, gesturing to the other man's pacing. "Come down."

"No, I can't. There's nothing here for me anymore," the man snapped. "Why should I stay? There are no challenges anymore! And why can't people just think?"

John frowned, stepping slightly closer guardedly. "What do you mean by that?"

The man glanced at him, desperation in his eyes. "Why can't they think before they speak? Why do they always have to say such hurtful things to me? I'm not a freak!"

John took a breath, hoping he could do this, could talk this lonely man out of suicide. "People say horrible things, but it's just because they feel insecure about themselves. It doesn't mean it's true."

Before either of them could continue, sirens sounded below. John peered over and saw a half-dozen police cars parked below on the street. He watched as a man leaped out of one and raised a megaphone.

"Sherlock! It's Lestrade! What do you think you're doing? Come down, mate, so we can talk!"

John looked back up at the man, who had watched all this as well. "See? Someone down there seems to want you alive."

The man shook his head, grabbing at his hair. "No no no Lestrade can't care. He's always so irritated with me and my 'showing off' as he calls it. Why would he want me alive?"

"Listen, Sherlock," John said, hesitant to use his name but thinking he could get the point across better. "It sounds to me that he's genuinely worried. Maybe give him a chance? Come down from there and you can talk to him."

Sherlock hesitated, glancing down at the street, down to where Lestrade was still yelling pleadingly. He seemed to be battling with himself, and John knew he was getting close to winning the man over.

"Come down, Sherlock," he said, stepping closer yet again, now only a few feet from the stricken man.

"I... I don't know," Sherlock whispered uncertainly.

"Then come down and we can figure it out, alright mate?" John said softly.

Sherlock looked at him, seeming to John like a frightened little boy who just wanted a friend. "Why did you come up here?" Sherlock asked suddenly, his eyes wide.

John paused. He knew his reply could make or break this man, save or kill him. He thought back to everything Sherlock had said, the beseeching things Lestrade had called out, the words John himself had spoken to try to convince Sherlock to come down.

"I came up here thinking I could talk a man out of suicide," he said.

"Well yes, obviously," Sherlock replied, clearly trying to sound annoyed and failing miserably. "But why are you still here trying even though you see how much a wreck I am?"

John again paused, looking up into Sherlock's eyes. And there, he saw the same loneliness he himself felt, the same longing to have someone who truly knew him. John had been lost since Afghanistan, just as this man had clearly been lost most of his life.

"Because I don't think you're a freak," he responded finally. "I think you just wanted to see if someone, anyone in the world, would care if you were going to die, would care enough to try to stop you."

He took one final step forward, keeping his eyes fixed on Sherlock. "Come down," he said one final time.

Sherlock blinked, gazing at John. And then, as if waking from a sort of trance, stepped down off the ledge to stand next to John.

An instant later, the door leading to the stairwell flew open with a crash and a clatter, the uniformed officers of Scotland Yard flooding out toward them. They rushed to Sherlock, checking him for injuries and firing questions at him. He stood there calmly, saying nothing.

Then a man John had to assume was Lestrade appeared, apparently having sprinted up the stairs to reach the roof. His chest was heaving for breath, but he strode to Sherlock and took him by the shoulders.

"What on earth do you think you were doing?" he demanded, sounding more frantic in person. "You idiot! I thought you were going to jump! Your brother was on the brink of sending in helicopters to yank you off the roof, and I was about to rip my hair out! Don't you ever do that again!"

Sherlock gave a funny little half-smirk at the mention of his brother, and he gently extricated himself from Lestrade's grasp. "Sorry, Detective Inspector. Won't happen again."

"It had better not," Lestrade muttered, then clapped Sherlock on the back, beginning to lead him away. "Come on mate, let's go talk."

Sherlock nodded absently, then glanced over his shoulder toward John, who still stood near the edge, watching events unfold. He gave Sherlock a small smile as the door swung shut on him. John then followed the rest of the officers back down the stairs. About a flight down he realized he was still holding his apparently unnecessary cane, and his left hand, the one he had been told had an intermittent tremor, was perfectly steady. That hadn't happened in ages. John smiled slightly to himself.

A month later, John came out of the operating room, exhausted from a four hour surgery. He headed straight for the coffee maker, needing a kick to keep him awake until he could clock out in an hour.

"Dr. Watson?" came a melodic, baritone voice from behind him.

He turned. Sherlock stood there, a small smile on his face. His face was fuller, his eyes brighter, and he seemed overall much happier.

"Sherlock," John greeted, smiling broadly. "How are you?"

"A lot better. Lestrade had me go see a therapist and she's actually been a big help. Of course, Lestrade being more of a friend than a colleague has helped as well. But the therapist actually assisted me in finding you."

"How so?" John asked, picking up his coffee cup and motioning for Sherlock to sit. They both sat down in the plastic chairs in the waiting room.

"She's your therapist as well. I described you to her and saw she clearly knew you, though she tried to hide it. After my session, I stole her notes and found the ones from your sessions."

"You stole them? You gave them back, right?"

Sherlock nodded. "I just needed your name, that's all."

"I looked you up on the internet the other night," John admitted abruptly, feeling like Sherlock should know, as well as wanting some answers for himself. "I found your website."

"What did you think?"

"I thought it was mad at first," John said with a grin. "But then I got to thinking about what you first said to me. You said, 'Afghanistan or Iraq?' It fit right in with what you said on the website, about how you basically can read people's life stories by looking at tiny details, so I realized there was some basis of fact there."

Sherlock nodded, though he still looked uncertain if John liked it or not. John decided to make it clear, having already decided he liked this man.

"It was extraordinary. You'll have to tell me how you knew I was a soldier sometime."

Sherlock grinned, his eyes lighting up with delight. "Are you hungry?" he asked suddenly.

"Starving," John said, realizing then just how in need of food he was. "But my shift isn't over; I can't leave yet."

Sherlock shrugged. "I'll wait. I know this great Chinese place over by Baker Street."

John smiled. "Sounds good to me. We can go there in an hour."

Sherlock nodded, looking like a kid who had just been handed a massive candy bar.

John stood up and turned to look back at Sherlock.

"By the way, this will seem like a random question, but do you happen to know of any available flats? I've been wanting to move out of mine for ages."

Sherlock smiled. "I think I know of a place..."

The End.

**Sorry if anyone was out of character... But I hope you liked it anyway! I have a few ideas for Sherlock-based stories in my head, but if I am to put them up, it would be a while. There will be more, though!**

**Read and be merry, my friends :) Also, please review! **


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